Page 75 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)
NEWARK, N.J. — Federal authorities confirmed yesterday that Carmelo "The Wolf" Ricci, the reputed organized crime figure found dead in a car bombing last month, had been secretly married to Harlem bakery owner Kathy Freeman Brown for 30 years.
Kathy Brown, 48, was discovered dead in a burnt vehicle off Interstate 287 near Exit 14. New Jersey State Police initially attributed the incident to weather-related conditions following recent storms in the area.
Court documents obtained by the FBI reveal the couple first wed in a civil ceremony in 1949.
The marriage was reaffirmed by New York State courts in 1956 and recognized by the Catholic Church in 1963.
Sources indicate the pair underwent another religious ceremony just two weeks before Ricci's death.
"We are investigating all connections between these deaths," said Special Agent Michael Torres of the FBI's Organized Crime Task Force. "The timing raises questions we intend to answer."
Ricci, a former light-heavyweight boxer turned businessman, had long been suspected of running criminal operations throughout Harlem and Queens. Freeman Brown operated the popular Kathy's Bakery on 125th Street.
The FBI declined to comment on whether Freeman Brown's death is being investigated as a homicide.
"Why is my picture in the paper?"
Carmelo was startled, coffee sloshing. Kathy stood behind him, hair wild from their night of fighting and reconciliation. Her silk kimono—the kind he loved to unwrap from her—hung loose at the shoulders. She rubbed sleep from her eyes, waiting.
Old habits die hard. The King of Lies had sworn honesty, but the words came anyway: "Nothing important. More federal harassment."
"Let me see."
He folded the paper with reluctance and handed it over. She read it while he studied her face. Carmelo watched for the moment she'd understand. When she finished, her expression remained neutral.
"Our marriage was never secret from the government. You made that certain years ago. They are using this to bait your enemies into providing more information on us.”
The comment was loaded with accusations he had hoped not to hear from her since they reconciled.
But he understood why. That date: 1956, it was when he turned her world inside out.
The moment she saw the date, Ely Brown's ghost walked into the room. He’ll probably be in every room they shared for the rest of the day.
Carmelo looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
Some sins were too heavy for confession.
Shame burned through him. Ely Brown—recruited, deployed, destroyed. The price of his obsession was paid in another man's blood.
She closed the space between them. Her fingers found his jaw, gentle but insistent. She forced his gaze upward. "Some wounds aren’t supposed to heal. Some scars are permanent. That is life, Melo. I understand that now. Do you?"
He couldn't speak.
“Our love kept us alive while everything around us fell into ashes. I forgave you for Ely, Melo. Because I’ve done things I wish to be forgiven for, too. You need to forgive yourself."
"I'm trying." His voice cracked. "But this plan means we do it again. We set everything on fire, and I don’t?—”
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t want Sandy to know the truth about me, this way. I want her to know me in a different way. I'm terrified it'll be too much for her to trust me or even love me,” he said.
“It will be. And you know that, it’s why you brought me here and boxed us all in. You’re not scared that it is too much for us. You’re scared that we’ll escape.”
She knelt before him. “I’m not running, Melo. We’ll help Sandy understand her parents aren’t perfect. But we won’t lie anymore about what we are and what we’ve done. Not anymore.”
He pulled her onto his lap, and she guided his head to her breast, holding him like a broken bird.
They stayed that way as morning light strengthened, sharing silence and touch.
Eventually, he fed her from his plate while she spoke of Sandy, of next year's plans, of anything except the man whose shadow would always live between them.
Marco DelSilva emerged from the villa's entrance. At six-foot-three, he moved with the agility of an experienced enforcer. Each step deliberate, measured, dangerous. His tailored black suit couldn't disguise the coiled power in his broad shoulders, nor the weapon holstered beneath his jacket.
Marco's dark hair, slicked back from his forehead, gleamed like coal in the light.
But it was his eyes that made men step back—eyes the color of bitter espresso, piercing and unforgiving, that seemed to catalog every weakness, every tell, every possible threat.
Women found those same eyes irresistible, though few were brave enough to hold his gaze for long.
The limo's engine ticked as it cooled. Marco nodded to one of his men, who immediately opened the rear door.
Consigliere Ernesto Rossi emerged slowly, his movements betraying the exhaustion of the back-and-forth flights between Quebec and New York.
Where Marco was all sharp angles and lethal elegance, Ernesto was soft around the edges—a man who wielded words and strategy rather than bullets.
Their eyes met. Marco's full lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—more an acknowledgment between men who understood the weight of secrets.
" Bentornato, Consigliere ," Marco said, his voice a low rumble. His accent turned the simple greeting into something almost friendly, though his tone remained professionally distant.
Ernesto's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "How is he?"
"Unpredictable." Marco's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"But things have... stabilized with him and the Queen.
He's with her now." He tilted his head toward the villa, where somewhere behind those ancient walls, their Don played out his elaborate seduction of the woman he worshipped and would destroy his empire for.
Ernesto followed his gaze, taking in the three-story fortress. The consigliere's fingers twitched, a nervous habit Marco had noticed intensifying over recent months.
"And Matteo?" Marco asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his jacket pull tight across his shoulders, revealing the outline of muscle earned through violence rather than any gym. "Is he surviving without his brother?"
"Caesar and Slim guard him well." Ernesto tugged at his collar. "But he refuses my counsel. He's obsessed with finding that medallion, convinced Carmelo lives." A bead of sweat traced down his temple despite the mild weather. "It's time to move forward with the plan."
Marco studied him with those unnerving eyes, reading the fear that radiated from the older man like heat from pavement. He'd seen Ernesto face down rival families without flinching, but their Don—even in his supposed death—inspired a different kind of terror. It was because of the hammer.
He respected The Wolf’s methods of discipline or execution. The hammer was an instrument of justice. But lesser men in their world feared Don Carmelo Ricci’s temper. Marco didn’t abide by fear.
"Then you'd better go in and face him," Marco said softly. The words were gentle, but something in his tone made them sound like a judge pronouncing a sentence. "He doesn't appreciate delays."
Ernesto's laugh was hollow. "Madonna, help me." He straightened his tie with trembling fingers, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle. Which, Marco reflected, wasn't far from the truth.
As the consigliere trudged toward the villa's entrance—each step heavy with dread—Marco called after him. "Ernesto."
The older man turned.
"Breathe," Marco advised, a hint of dark amusement in his voice. "He can smell fear. Makes him... creative."
Ernesto's face paled further before he disappeared into the shadows of the doorway.
Marco shook his head, a genuine smile finally breaking across his features—transforming his face from merely handsome to devastatingly attractive. But the smile never reached his eyes. Those remained cold, watchful, already calculating the moves required to keep their volatile Don's empire intact.
He turned and strode toward the guard posts, his long legs eating up the distance. There was work to be done, and Marco DelSilva never failed in his duty to the Ricci family.
Never.